


Smolder

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, New York Yankees, POV Second Person, Past Relationship(s), Playing With Fire Literally, Pre-Slash, Pretentious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-01
Updated: 2007-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You stand behind Proctor’s crouched frame and watch his baseball gear go up in flames.  White-hot tongues of flame lick at black cleats, nylon warm-up jacket, even his cap and glove, and you wonder to yourself if that’s your season in there too.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smolder

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a follow up to [this thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/564756), which I wrote two years ago. It was supposed to be part of something longer, but I never wrote any more for this " 'verse." Hasn't been beta'd or edited so it probably sucks. 
> 
> Proctor did actually set his shit on fire after a bad outing, or something.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/yankeeslash/49946.html).
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

>   
>  **smol·der** also **smoul·der**
> 
> intr.v. smol·dered, smol·der·ing, smol·ders  
>  **1.** To burn with little smoke and no flame.  
>  _**2.** To exist in a suppressed state: Revolution smoldered in the masses._  
>  **3.** To show signs of repressed anger or hatred.


You stand behind Proctor’s crouched frame and watch his baseball gear go up in flames. White-hot tongues of flame lick at black cleats, nylon warm-up jacket, even his cap and glove, and you wonder to yourself if that’s your season in there too.

Proctor hasn’t even noticed you’re there, that you’ve been there since he dragged his shit out of the clubhouse and piled it up on the dugout steps, and ripped a packet of matches out of his back pocket. He looks like a man lost in his own little insular world, which kind of makes sense to you, somehow. The bullpen is an entirely different beast.

When the flames have eaten Proctor’s gear, leaving behind nothing but smoldering ash and gray plumes of smoke, and his temples and the sides of his face are streaked with sweat, you finally make your presence known with a quiet, discreet cough.

Proctor jumps to his feet and spins around. “Way to just sneak up on a guy, Farnsy,” he grunts, shoving the matchbook back into his pocket. He turns and kicks at the ash.

“Wish I’d thought of that the other night,” you reply with a grin.

“Think you did well enough for yourself.” Proctor kicks at the pile of ash again, scattering it into the wind.

“Still, dumb fucking thing to do.” You push yourself away from the dugout wall and head for the bench to retrieve your glove. You slip it onto your hand and flex it, flapping it and tugging at the laces.

Proctor snorts. “You, of all people, have no right to be Mr. High-and-Mighty,” he says, but it’s not an insult or an accusation. Proctor has a smile on his face. He turns toward the exit, and the two of you head back for the clubhouse.

“ _I_ never did anything that stupid,” you point out, sliding your hand out of the glove, tucking it into the crook of your elbow.

“I think kicking a metal fan is right up there, Kyle,” he says.

You want to argue the point, but you can’t. He’s right, that _was_ pretty fucking dumb. So, all you can say is, “Whatever.”

A ghost of a smirk flickers across Proctor’s face. “That’s what I thought.” He pushes his way into the clubhouse and heads for his now empty locker.

You head for your own and start stripping off your uniform. You pull a hanger off a hook at the back of your stall, next to a picture of your son. A tiny cross on a thin silver chain hangs next to the picture. You never wear it though. You can’t; it’s not yours to wear.

The teammates had heard stories about you. The booze, the women, the unfounded rumors of x-amount of illegitimate children. They hadn’t expected the Kyle Farnsworth they’d ended up getting. At least in that first year. If you weren’t so fucking frustrated with how everything was going in year two, you’d proudly admit the old Kyle Farnsworth was well on his return.

You finish hanging up your uniform and strip down to your skin. A warm shower is just about the only thing that’ll take your mind off the loss. It won’t wash it away, by any means, but maybe it’ll soothe your frayed nerves. Well. Probably not, but it can’t hurt to hope.

You sling a towel over your shoulder, grab your soap and shampoo, and head for the showers. Voices ricochet off the tiled walls, above the roar of the showerheads, and the pounding in your head gets even louder, more insistent.

You pick a stall and press your forehead against the cool tile, let your eyes slip closed. Warm steam billows around you, envelopes you, and you can’t even hear the voices anymore.

You feel almost calm. Almost at peace.

These are really the only moments you have. The only moments when the media isn’t shoving microphones down your throat, clamoring for interviews and more opportunities to make you look bad, the only moments when bloodthirsty fans aren’t calling for your head on a platter.

These are it, these are all you’ve got now.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
